The Nordiques were still the local favourites. Each player received an enormous roar from the friendly crowd, though none, it seemed, got as loud a reception as Travis. But then, none of them had been through what Travis had been through this week.
The introductions done, the players began to head for the bench, the starting lineups remaining on the ice to wait for the anthem. Travis was nervous, but ready. He had hit the crossbar twice in the warm-up. He had felt the warmth of the crowd. He wanted the puck to drop.
A man in a blue blazer was moving towards centre ice. He was carrying a microphone. He spoke first in French, then in English, about a special guest and a special presentation that was going to take place before the anthem.
The crowd was already rising for a better view. Some had recognized who it was that had just moved towards the entrance to the ice surface. The crowd was mumbling, the noise growing, and some fans were pointing and cheering.
Was it Guy Lafleur? Travis wondered. Obviously the crowd recognized whomever it was. It had to be a hockey star.
The man in the blue blazer was still introducing the special guest: “He has come here following last night’s game in Montreal to show his continuing support for Canadian minor hockey…”
It couldn’t be Lafleur. It had to be a current NHL star!
The crowd was all up now, the cheering rising to a roar as loud as the one that greeted Travis. A handsome, dark-haired young man in a suit was moving through the crowd of tournament officials and about to step onto the ice.
“…captain of the Mighty Ducks of Anaheim…Paul Kariya!”
Despite the roar, Travis heard a voice beside him.
“I’m dead meat!”
Travis turned and looked at Nish. His friend had turned the colour of the fresh-flooded ice. Nish closed his eyes as if he wished he could make the great Paul Kariya vanish.
The Mighty Ducks’ captain was about to find out that according to some kid’s hockey card he had a long-lost “cousin.”
A man was coming out onto the ice behind Paul Kariya. He was carrying something over his right arm. It looked like a hockey sweater, with the same colours as were worn by the Screech Owls. Paul Kariya took the sweater, and the man in the blue blazer began talking again in French and English, switching back and forth between the two languages. With the noise of the crowd and the echoes of the Colisée, Travis caught only pieces of what he was saying.
“…les sept buts de Guy Lafleur…a record that has stood for nearly four decades…un effort incroyable…so it is with great pleasure that the organizing committee of the fortieth Quebec International Peewee Tournament honours Sarah Cuthbertson!”
Once more the Colisée burst into a tremendous roar. How, Travis wondered, could the fans keep it up? A stunned Sarah skated towards centre ice, where Paul Kariya congratulated her and then held up the hockey sweater.
It was Sarah’s “stolen” sweater! Number 9, with seven velvet pucks sewn on the front–just like Guy Lafleur’s!
The Colisée crowd seemed to blow like a volcano when they saw it. Some of the Owls on the ice dropped their sticks and gloves and held their hands over their ears, but even their hands and helmets could not keep out the roar.
With Paul Kariya’s help, Sarah pulled off the replacement sweater and pulled on the new one. Photographers skidded along the ice to capture the moment, and then Sarah and Paul Kariya, both of them smiling, posed for a picture together while the crowd continued to cheer.
From just behind Travis came Nish’s voice again.
“She’d better not tell him about my card!”
The moment the puck left the referee’s hand, Travis knew he had never been in a hockey game quite like this one. It was as if an electrical cord ran from every player and had been connected to the same charge. There was the proud history of the tournament. There was the great size of the rink. There were the peewee ghosts of Guy Lafleur, Wayne Gretzky, Mario Lemieux, Patrick Roy. There was Paul Kariya, the NHL’s newest star, watching from the stands. There were television cameras. There were the more than ten thousand fans, the noise like an explosion every time something happened on the ice. And there were the Beauport Nordiques, the crowd favourites, up against the Screech Owls for the divisional championship trophy.
The crowd no longer intimidated Travis. He seemed to take energy from the roar. He still tingled with the surprise of his greeting, still thrilled at the memory of tilting his stick in salute. And he had hit the crossbar during the warm-up.
Sarah seemed inspired by her seven velvet pucks. She played as if possessed by the spirit of Lafleur. She was all over the ice, checking, attacking, never out of position, never selfish with the puck. Twice she fed Dmitri with breakaway passes, only to have the marvellous Beauport goaltender turn Dmitri away. Once she fed the puck to Travis, coming in fast on left wing, and he ripped a shot that just hit the wrong side of the crossbar. Had it struck the underside, the Owls would be leading. But it struck the top and flew into the crowd, a throng of excited kids scrambling for the souvenir.
But the story today was Nish. Travis had no idea what it was–Paul Kariya’s presence, envy over Sarah’s velvet pucks, the chance to win the Quebec Peewee–but whatever it was, it was bringing out the best in Nish’s game.
Twice in the first period alone, Nish saved goals on plays that already had Jeremy beaten. Once he fell, sliding, and swept away a puck one of the Beauport forwards was about to slip into the open side of the Owls’ net. Once he went down on his knees behind Jeremy, who was out of the play, and took a hard, point-blank shot from a Beauport defender straight in the chest, then batted the rebound away with a baseball swing of his stick before the puck could land back in the Owls’ crease.
On the ice, Travis had no time to think. The game was so fast, so unpredictable, the action end-to-end and furious. The crowd roared with each rush, cheered each good defensive play. Travis felt wonderful, as if he were part of a huge, well-oiled machine that was demonstrating hockey as it should be played. He was honoured to be part of this game, pleased that he could be out there with these wonderful peewee players and fit right in. Not only that, he was captain of one of the teams.
On the bench, Travis could watch–and think. He was inspired by how hard the other Owls were working: Andy all over the ice, little Simon leading rush after rush, Jeremy Weathers leaping to cover rebounds, Jesse Highboy throwing himself in front of shots, Lars ragging the puck until he could see his pass, Data always back, always dependable.
The Nordiques scored first again. Travis was on the ice, and a pass from Nish came too high along the boards for him to handle. The Nordiques’ defenceman cradled the puck in his skates, kicked it up to his stick, and sent it fast across the ice to the far winger, waiting just to the side of the goal. Jeremy stopped the one-timer, but Beauport’s big centre swiped the rebound out of the air and sent it high into the net.
“My fault,” Travis said as he skated back to the bench.
“No,” said Nish. “Mine. Bad pass.”
The next shift out, Nish made up for it. He intercepted a Beauport pass just beyond centre and stepped around his check before rapping a hard pass off the boards that Dmitri took in full flight.
Dmitri led his defenceman off into the corner and used the boards to drop the puck back to Sarah. He knew she’d be coming in behind. She picked up the puck, moved toward the slot, and hit Travis perfectly on the tape as he broke for the net. He shot as soon as he felt the weight of the puck. The puck flew high–too high, Travis thought at first–and then clicked in off the underside of the crossbar.
Owls 1, Nordiques 1.
“Un bon but. Good goal,” the winger opposite said as they lined up for the face-off at centre.
Travis looked up. It was the same winger who’d dumped him last game, the one who’d sarcastically said, “Je t’aime.” But this time there was no sarcasm.
“Thanks,” Travis said. Then, as an afterthought: “Merci.”
The game remained tied 1
–1 until there were only ten minutes to go. The crowd was still screaming. The game remained as fast-paced and intense as it had been on that first shift.
Nish again made the key play when he executed a give-and-go with Sarah coming out of the Owls’ end. He stickhandled behind his own net, then hit Sarah as she came back over the blueline and cut to the right. The moment Nish passed, he took off, heading straight up ice, and Sarah returned the puck to him on her backhand, the play catching the Beauport forwards by surprise.
Nish put his head down, his skates sizzling even on the chewed-up ice. Travis dug in hard, double-stepping on his right skate before completing his turn and pushing hard on his left skate, his leg fully extended and a flick of his ankle giving him one final surge along the ice.
Nish looked up and saw him. He shifted slightly to pass, Travis hurrying to get a step on the defenceman, who was reading the play. Travis had just enough on him to be free.
Nish tossed the puck ahead of Travis, who was able to scoop it off the boards in full flight.
The defenceman had turned and was giving chase. Travis thought he had the angle, but didn’t quite. The defenceman was on him by the blueline, and even with him as he crossed.
He had only the back pass left! Travis knew what Muck had told him. He knew what had happened last game. But there was no other play!
He knew Nish. Travis knew he would still be coming hard. He could hear Nish’s stick pounding the ice: the signal that he wanted the puck.
Travis just had time to slip the puck onto his backhand. The defenceman was on him, reaching, ready to bowl him over if necessary. Travis waited, waited, and just as the defenceman completely committed to checking him, he dumped the pass blind behind his back. He spun round as he and the defenceman fell.
Nish had the puck! It had hit his stick perfectly. Travis couldn’t have sent a better pass if he had drawn it with a pencil and ruler.
Nish was in, the last Beauport defender racing to cover him. He waited, then did the spinnerama move he usually only dared in practice, spinning right around with his back to the defenceman and carrying the puck past.
The defenceman turned, catching Nish just as he tossed the puck off to Dmitri, who was in all alone.
The crowd roared, and like a thousand jack-in-the-boxes they sprang up in their seats.
Dmitri faked once and drilled a hard shot for the high far side.
Travis was already moving his stick into the air to cheer when the Beauport goalie’s blocker flashed high and knocked the puck away.
Nish, still barrelling in past the last defender, picked up the rebound. He turned, moving the puck to his backhand, and was actually skating backwards as he reached around the falling goalie and slipped the puck, barely, into the far side.
Owls 2, Nordiques 1.
Nish hit the boards and crumpled–not hurt, but very happy. He lay there grinning and pumping his fists, waiting for the pile-on.
“A great goal!” Travis shouted. “A video highlighter!”
“You did it, Nish!” shouted Dmitri. “You did it!”
Nish had done it–but there were still ten minutes left.
“No more fancy stuff!” Muck shouted, as he sent them back out for the face-off.
Travis felt he was speaking directly to him. No more behind-the-back passes, that was for sure. But it had worked!
Muck wanted defensive hockey, and that is what he got. With Sarah killing time by hanging on to the puck and circling ever backwards, the Owls waited until the frustrated Nordiques charged and then dumped–trying at least to cross centre ice first so they wouldn’t cause an icing.
When the Beauport team charged, Nish was there. Diving, sliding, and throwing himself across the ice, he broke up play after play, until after one whistle he lay on the ice, completely exhausted. It was the strangest thing Travis had ever seen in a hockey rink. Nish lay there, gasping, and some of the fans began clapping.
The applause rose until everyone in the rink was clapping. Then, as Nish picked himself up off the ice, they rose, and delivered the most incredible standing ovation Travis had ever seen. Even under his helmet, he could feel the hair on the back of his head standing up.
As Nish made his way to the bench, his head hanging down, his stick dragging, the Beauport team decided to pull its goaltender for the extra attacker.
Muck called the one time out he was allowed, and the Owls skated over to hear what he had to say. But Muck said nothing; he stood behind the bench, Mr. Dillinger at his shoulder, and stared at Nish, gasping on the end of the bench, waiting for him to catch his breath.
Finally, with the referee signalling the end to the time out, Nish looked up and caught Muck’s eye.
“Can you go?” Muck asked.
Nish couldn’t even speak. He nodded once and jumped the boards, the rink again exploding into cheers.
What fantastic hockey fans, Travis thought. When Muck said they knew their hockey better than any fans in the world, he wasn’t kidding. They came wanting Beauport to win, but they knew that they had seen the most extraordinary effort imaginable from both teams, particularly the heavyset, red-faced defenceman for the Owls, and they were bound to give the Screech Owls and Nish their due.
With their extra attacker, the Nordiques charged relentlessly. Even with Sarah out for the entire final shift, the Owls couldn’t gain control of the puck. They couldn’t score on the empty net. They couldn’t even get an icing.
If it hadn’t been for Nish, all would have been lost.
He dived head first to knock a sure goal away from the big Beauport centre. He threw himself into the net three times to block scramble shots that Jeremy couldn’t hold. He took the puck off the big centre and faked a rush outside, sending the Nordiques players over the blueline, then circling back into his own end and, with the centre giving chase, heading as fast towards his own goal as he might have rushed the Nordiques’ net.
Nish whipped around the net, the big centre right behind him, and dropped the puck onto the backhand so it hit the boards and bounced out again, nestling against the back of the net.
Nish turned instantly and grabbed the puck he had left behind as the big Beauport centre flew out of the play. He stickhandled patiently, then lifted the puck high towards the clock. It slapped back down on the ice just as the horn sounded to end the greatest championship game the Owls had ever played.
They had won the Quebec Peewee!
Travis Lindsay thought he knew what a great roar was. But he had no idea. What he had heard during his introduction, what he had heard during the presentation of Sarah’s sweater, was nothing compared to the roar that went up when they announced the Most Valuable Player for the C division of the Quebec International Peewee Tournament.
“…WAYNE NISHHHHHHI-KAAWWAAAAAA!”
Players on both sides began banging their sticks on the ice in tribute. The fans, every single one of them, were already on their feet, cheering, screaming, yelling. The noise was deafening.
“Oh no!” Nish said, as he spun in a frantic circle beside Travis.
“What?” Travis asked.
Then he saw.
The MVP award was to be presented by Paul Kariya. The NHL star had a large silver trophy in his arms, and he was smiling in Nish’s direction.
“I can’t go!” Nish said.
“Get over there!” Travis shouted, hoping he could be heard above the cheering.
Reluctantly, red-faced, Nish laid his stick down at his feet and then his gloves. He took off his helmet, the cheers rising, and handed it to Travis, then skated slowly over to where Paul Kariya was waiting with the trophy.
Nish was beet red by the time he got there.
Paul Kariya reached out, shook his hand, and gave him the trophy. Then he grabbed Nish and hugged him, the crowd erupting with an even greater cheer.
Travis could see Paul Kariya whispering something in Nish’s ear. Perhaps he was shouting. He would have to shout to be heard above this.
Nish came back, re
dder still, but smiling. He raised the MVP trophy as a tribute to the crowd, then to the Beauport team, which made the cheering fans go wild.
“What’d he say to you?” Travis said as Nish gathered his gloves back up.
“Who?” Nish asked.
Travis couldn’t believe it. “Paul Kariya! What did he say?”
“Oh, that,” Nish said nonchalantly. “Just, ‘Nice game, cousin.’ That’s all.”
Travis looked at him in shock. Nish was grinning from ear to ear, both arms around his trophy.
They had brought the championship trophy out on the ice. A swarm of officials had gathered, and the man in the blue blazer with the microphone was moving towards the shining silver cup.
Travis could hear his name being called. He could hear the crowd cheering him as he skated.
But he wasn’t thinking at all about being captain, or about the cheers. He wasn’t even thinking about how, so many years ago, “Terrible Ted” Lindsay of the Detroit Red Wings had hoisted the Stanley Cup high above his head and thus established a grand tradition for victorious team captains ever since.
Travis would do all that. And he would then hand it off, first to Sarah, and then Nish. He knew he would be bringing Monsieur and Madame Dupont, his billets, out on the ice so they could hold it too. He knew that he would ask for a photograph of him and Nicole with it, something to have that would forever remind him of this wonderful, miraculous moment.
But before any of that he had something else to do. He tried to clear his mind and think only of what Sarah and Nicole had taught him since that moment they dragged him off to “school.”
He had shaken the officials’ hands. He had the championship trophy in his arms. But now he reached for the microphone.
The Complete Screech Owls, Volume 2 Page 22